“I gotta set up the floodlights. After that, we can just hang out.”
“Good,” I said, and we proceeded to plow through the pizza like we'd just been voted off the Survivor island.
Once we had our fill, I shoved the box into the refrigerator, and followed Tom to the front yard. It was pitch black out, and although I carried a flashlight, I had no desire to use it.
I knew evil things lurked in the darkness. I didn't need to see them.
Tom had the lights laid out on the lawn. He knelt beside the first one, and I knelt beside him. Something crunched beneath my knees, and I turned on the flashlight.
“What's wrong?” he asked, as he fiddled with the first floodlight.
“I don't know,” I said, scanning the ground around me. “Holy shit!”
“What?” Tom asked, and I turned so quickly I hit him in the head with the flashlight.
“Jeez, Mona,” he said through a moan.
“I didn't know you were so close to me. Sorry,” I mumbled.
“It's all right. You didn't hit me that hard. So, what did you find? I'd like to know before you accidentally kill me.”
“It's bird seed,” I said, and Tom gasped.
“It's what?”
“It's exactly what you think I said,” I whispered.
“He covered the lawn with it, didn't he?” Tom asked.
“I wouldn't say he covered it, but there's a hell of a lot of it here,” I explained.
“I wonder when he did that.”
“It's hard to tell. It kind of blends with the leaves. I'm not sure I would have noticed it at all if I didn't almost sit in it.”
“Wow. He really hates us,” Tom remarked, and for the first time, he sounded like it bothered him.
“He does.”
“No one's ever hated me before,” my husband said, and I felt a lump in my throat.
“Me either. Let's set these things up, Tom, and go back in the house. We have to do something about Thurman, but let's worry about that after the crows are gone. This can't continue,” I said, sounding defeated.
Despite the otherwise dilapidated condition of the house, the outside electric was in top notch shape. Ida had enjoyed Christmas decorations and had strung lights on everything, including the rotting carcass of an old Ford, some years back. Because of this, the exterior afforded multiple electrical outlets. We used this to our advantage, and within thirty minutes, all the floodlights were plugged in and ready.
“Okay,” Tom said. “Mom's friend said they take a bit to heat up, then they should light on their own. I'll come back and check on them in a little while.”
Tom threw some popcorn in the microwave, and I found an old movie on TNT we both loved. We'd watched it for about thirty minutes when the living room lit up like daylight.
“What the hell?” Tom whispered, as we both stood up from the couch. I followed him to the porch and we froze there with our mouths hanging open. Our front lawn looked like a night at the Academy Awards. The lights had heated up, but my mother-in-law's friend failed to tell us they did not remain stationary. They swung back and forth, creating a real Hollywood-inspired light show.
“Outstanding,” I whispered, and Tom began laughing hysterically. For a moment, I grieved the loss of the drag queen show. They would have really added to the red-carpet feel.
“Okay, that's not gonna work,” Tom said, once he'd regained the ability to speak.
“I'm calling the fucking cops!” Thurman yelled from across the street.
“Uh, oh. No one told him about the code word,” I said, and Tom laughed again.
“I'll give you two minutes to shut that shit off!” Thurman yelled, and I stifled my laughter. “You God damned freaks are gonna put me in my grave.”
One could only hope.
Twenty-Two
Saturday
There is nothing like a near-death
experience to make you appreciate the simple things.
By midnight we were snuggled in our bed, and the walls resonated with our contented snoring. Sadly, our contentment ended when we opened our eyes at first light, our minds became conscious, and we fully engaged the escalated status of our predicament.
“Hi,” Tom whispered, from his rumpled pillow.
“Hi.” The room was blissfully quiet, serene, and a glimmer of hope came over me. “Are they gone?”
Tom climbed out of bed and shuffled to the window. “Not gone, babe.”
I joined him at the window. The lawn was standing room only. Morning dew clung to the bird seed, and it glistened in the early morning light. It might have been pretty, if not for the presence of hundreds of birds enjoying the All You Can Eat Buffet.
I saw Tom off for a big Saturday of selling used cars, and headed for the kitchen. I closed the curtains, thus separating myself from the buffet, and settled at the table for a third cup of coffee. On the brink of the next stage in our remodel, I decided to get things started and clear out the cupboards. If I immersed myself in work, perhaps I could keep the urge to go on a homicidal spree, at bay.
I rinsed my coffee mug, grabbed a couple of empty Fangerhouse boxes, and began filling them with dishes from the cupboards. I'd emptied the two lower shelves, and was reaching for a bowl on the top shelf when the phone rang. I was so focused on the task, the sudden ringing scared the crap out of me. I jumped a mile, lost my footing, grabbed the cupboard to steady myself, and pulled the entire unit off the wall.
The seconds passed in slow motion, and the events of my life played out in my head.
I was about to be killed in a bizarre household accident, by a bunch of rotten cupboards.
“Sonovabitch,” I whispered, as I collapsed to the floor beneath a pile of splintered wood. At that exact moment, I heard the answering machine. “Good morning, this is Jack from All Sea Travel calling for Ida. We just wanted her to know about our online specials this month.” Jack – whose voice sounded disturbingly familiar – rattled off a web site address, left an eight-digit special-savings code for a five-day cruise, and disconnected.
“What the fuck?” I whispered, breaking the obscenity rule, but I was dead, so rules didn't apply anymore.
I was dead, wasn't I?
“Holy shit,” I muttered. “I'm not dead.”
I was elated over my unexpected survival, but I was royally pissed at Jack. It wasn't funny the first time, and it certainly wasn't funny now. I was alive, but Ida wasn't. She was in a box in a cemetery, four miles away. I wasn't about to have her exhumed to take a cruise.
I wiggled out from beneath the rubble and checked the caller ID on the phone. Jack's new employer came up unknown, and I had a sneaking suspicion All Sea Travel didn't exist, and the call was this guy's idea of a sick joke.
“Asshole,” I muttered, as I surveyed the damage. Aside from the crappy plastic bowls, most of which had no lids, all the dishes had broken, save one – the one I'd been trying to grab. That one remained intact, as if joining Jack in his efforts to torture me, and although I was grateful to be alive, I believed in balancing the universe. I picked up the dish, and hurled it across the room.
“Hey, easy does it, sweetie,” Robbie said from the doorway, and I couldn't help it, I just lost it. I plopped down in the middle of the wreckage and sobbed with all the fervor of a bride who'd been left at the alter. Robbie sat beside me, holding me to his chest. “Come on, Mona. Everything can be fixed,” he said, and I turned to look at him. As I did, I saw the Myrtle Beach mug from the corner of my eye. Aside from the dish, which hadn't broken until I'd flung it at the wall, the cup was the only breakable to survive the kitchen apocalypse.
I reached for it, cradled it against me, and resumed sobbing.
“Oh, honey,” Robbie murmured soothingly. “Let it out,” he suggested, and I did. I cried until I was breathless, and when I was done, I felt better. I was alive, and I had Jack, on whom I could now focus all my negative energy.
“What happened here?” Robbie asked, and I laughed.
“Everything I touch turns to shit,” I whined, and Robbie sighed.
“I'm sure that's not true.”
“It is. Look what I did.” I clung to Robbie, as he surveyed the mess. He remained expressionless, and I decided no matter how much I enjoyed his company, I wouldn't be playing poker with him anytime soon.
“How much time do we have?” Robbie asked.
“Hmm?” I asked, not entirely certain what he meant.
“How much time do we have to make this look like it was intentional?”
“You mean, 'how much time do we have to hide the truth of what happened from your brother?'”
“Yeah. Exactly,” Robbie replied.
“The Super Store closes at five o'clock, but I have to head over there this afternoon to pick up my new car. I was hoping you'd take me.”
“Okay. Here's the plan. Let's tear out the rest of the cupboards, make it look like we meant to do it, and we'll pile all this out back, buy a six pack, and have a hell of a bonfire. Maybe a bonfire will drive the crows away. I noticed there were a shitload of 'em out there.”
“I know they're out there. That nice Mr. Pippin decided to become a humanitarian and feed the birds. He sprinkled the lawn with birdseed,” I explained, and Robbie groaned.
“Jesus. What is wrong with that guy? Who would do that? I mean, come on, even if you did kill Ida, you would be going before a parole board right about now. Pippin should at least afford you the same courtesy the judicial system would,” Robbie said, and I smiled. He grabbed a broom and started sweeping up the broken dishes. I headed to the bathroom to wash my tear-stained face.
“I wanted to cook dinner for us tonight,” Robbie said, when I returned. “What time would you want to eat?” he asked, as I started stacking pieces of cupboard against the kitchen wall.
“How's six?” I suggested.
“Okay, then let's put the bird in now,” Robbie said, and I felt the blood drain from my entire body.
“The bird?” I squeaked, feeling myself sway.
“Jeez, Mona,” Robbie said, sounding like his brother. “I'm going to cook a turkey, not a crow.”
“Good,” I said, feeling my strength return. There was nothing I wanted more than to be rid of the crows, but I could hardly see myself herding them up and leading them to the oven like a bunch of black-winged Hansels and Gretels. “I'll light the oven,” I offered, hoping the old Magic Chef had one last hurrah in her before being replaced in a few days. I turned the dial for the oven, lit a match, and held my breath. The oven lit. I breathed a sigh of relief and closed the door.
“Lit,” I announced, as Robbie threw the last dustpan full of crap into the garbage can.
“Okay, that's done,” he said. “So, I miss anything while I was gone?” he asked, with anticipation. He'd been with us long enough to know the answer to his question was, without a doubt, yes.
I proceeded to tell him about the extravaganza with the floodlights, and he laughed for a moment, then looked sad.
“I wish Marilyn could have seen it,” he said, and I suppressed the urge to laugh. He sounded dead serious, and I stopped myself from reminding him she'd merely been a mannequin. It was obvious, to Robbie, she'd represented something real.
We painstakingly cleaned the remainder of the kitchen, removed the rest of the old cabinetry, cooked up the lie that the old cupboards were rotted - thus justifying to Tom the overage in the This Old House Season One budget - and dragged the entire mess out back.
We did rock-paper-scissors to see who'd get the bathroom first, and I lost. While I waited for Robbie to shower, I loaded the turkey into the oven.
By three o'clock we were headed out in Robbie's truck to pick up my new Toyota Rav-4. He'd only been back for four hours and the windshield and hood of his Dodge Ram were splattered generously with bird crap.
“I have plans tonight, but let's have that fire tomorrow night,” he said.
I agreed. “We have to do something soon. If we don't, we run the risk of being discovered a hundred years in the future, mummified by crow shit, like a bunch of modern day pharaohs.”
Robbie laughed.
Ten minutes later we pulled into the parking lot of the Super Store. I didn't see my Jeep. I also saw no sign of my Tom. Maybe he was riding around somewhere with a Little Debbie on the front seat. With Tom, anything was possible.
I figured Louie, the service manager, would know where Tom had disappeared to, so I poked around until I found him. I'd only met Louie once, so I reintroduced myself, shook his hand, and asked him if he'd seen Tom.
“Your husband doesn't work here anymore, Mrs. Siggs,” Louie said.
“Jeez. What happened?” I asked, and Louie chuckled. I thought Tom and I had decided he'd stay at the Super Store another few weeks until his classes began.
“He quit today. You got a minute?” Louie asked, and I nodded. “Follow me, then. I'll show ya.”
Louie led me deeper into the garage, and introduced me to the hideous replacement to the original deer car.
“Good Lord,” I said, and Louie laughed. “That's even more asinine than the first one.” The car was mustard yellow with little specks of rust. It was so old, I couldn't even determine the make or model, and I knew a thing or two about cars. The deer head was bigger this time, and each remaining part was a more pathetic representation than had adorned the original.
“Artie was delighted. Couldn't wait to show your husband,” Louie said.
Artie Palmer owned the Bucks County Auto Super Store. Artie's dad had owned it before him, and his father before him. I had to wonder who in the hell had come up with the idea for the deer car. Whoever it was should be institutionalized.
“What did my husband say?” I asked. “Or, don't you know?”
“Oh, I do know. I was right there. Artie asked us all to come back when he presented it to Tom. Your husband looked like he'd just shit his pants, pardon my French,” Louie said, and I laughed. “Then, and I will never forget this, Tom Siggs, your husband, ma'am, the guy least likely to ever argue with Artie said, and I quote, 'I'm not driving that piece of shit. I'm going back to school to be a teacher, to teach young people to believe in themselves so they never, ever feel so desperate to please someone that they would actually drive something that ducking ridiculous.'”
“Ducking?” I asked with a smile.
“I believe that's what he said.”
“And that was all?” I asked.
“No. After Artie regained consciousness, your husband said, 'Oh, and, Artie...., I quit.'”
“What did the rest of you do?”
“The shop guys cheered. The sales guys all got real pale, and the new guy wobbled a little, and for a second, I thought he might faint. I figured they were all wondering who'd have to drive that hideous piece of shit, pardon my French,” he said.
“Your French is fine.”
“Thanks. Oh, and Mrs. Siggs?”
“Yeah?” I said, as we walked back toward my new Toyota.
“What's with 'ducking?'”
“It's our code word. My French was a little over the top.”
“Oh. Gotcha.”
Louie had another customer, so I strolled out front to talk to Robbie, who'd hung around to find out what had happened to his brother. After I filled him in, Robbie left to pick up a bottle of wine to go with dinner. I returned to the garage to pick up my new SUV. I wanted to get it out of there before anyone had designs on embellishing it with leftover deer paraphernalia.
The SUV drove like a dream, and I took a little detour just to sustain the ride home. I rounded the corner of Pleasant Valley Road, pulled in front of the house, and stopped along the street. If I recalled correctly, we'd had about ten conversations regarding a new car. What we hadn't discussed, was where we'd park it. I was thinking one county over, but it wasn't geographically favorable, so I left the SUV on the street, said a quick prayer for its paint job, and hurried up the sidewalk.
The house was quiet. “Tom?” No response. I t
hought I heard him moving around in the bedroom, but the door was shut. Intent on surprising him, I tiptoed down the hall and flung the door open. He stood in front of my dresser, wearing the zebra bra.
“What in the name of hell?” I whispered.
Three people lived in my house, only one was a woman, and everyone wore bras?
I was about to lose my freakin' mind!
Twenty-Three
The decision to tinker with a gas appliance
might be the last decision you ever make.
“Hey,” Tom said, sounding casual. “I thought we'd decided the kitchen cabinets could stay.”
What in the name of God? “Excuse me?”
“I happened to notice the cupboards were gone. I thought we'd talked about keeping those.”
“And, I happened to notice you're wearing a bra. What are you doing, Tom?”
“I was trying to figure out why my brother would voluntarily wear something like this. It itches, and frankly, it hurts like hell,” he said, removing the undergarment. I relaxed, but only slightly. After all, this was the man who'd told Thurman lightening had struck his mailbox. This guy could lie on a moment's notice.
“You've never worn a bra before?”
“Why would I?” he asked, his voice muffled by the sweatshirt he was pulling over his head.
“I was just asking.”
“You think I wear women's lingerie?” he asked.
“Do you?”
“No, Mona. I don't. I may not be the king of masculinity here, but I do not wear women's clothes, nor do I have any desire to.”
“Good.”
“While we're on the topic of being emasculated, I quit my job,” he said, and I smiled.
“I know. I picked up my car.”
“Did you see it?”
I didn't have to ask what it was. “Yeah. It's disgusting. I'm proud of you.”
“Me, too. I'm not the same guy I was when I agreed to drive that piece of shit the first time. I'm different now.”
Becoming Mona Lisa Page 18
